


breathes there the man

by takiki16



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cold War, F/M, KGB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:45:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takiki16/pseuds/takiki16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the years after WWII, the East German Ministry for State Security (the MfS, or the Stasi) were established as the secret police force for East Germany.  Throughout their long history of suppression, coercion, and surveillance, the Stasi of East Germany maintained intimate ties with the Russian KGB."</p>
<p>In which Gaby considers Illya's past, and Illya considers his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathes there the man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrunja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/gifts).



Patriotism is a funny thing, in U.N.C.L.E.  Napoleon switches back and forth between nationalities as easily as he changes hats – his accent is the most American thing about him.  Waverly is British in the way that the sky is blue; five minutes of conversation and you can feel the rain and see the Union Jack waving in the breeze.  Gaby is a woman without a country now, but the longing to hear German around her again surprises her sometimes with its sharpness. 

Illya, Gaby knows, would die for the honor of Mother Russia a thousand times over.  He wears his nationalism like an aggressive badge of honor.  Even if his presence didn’t give it away, the regular calls from Moscow for Agent Kuryakin would.  Illya is on a tighter leash than any of them.

Given all of that, given how close the three of them became, it should have surprised Gaby more that she forgot Illya was KGB.

 

* * *

 

They were kissing, of all the times for her to realize.  Illya’s shirt was already off, and she is yanking impatiently at his belt because god, it’s finally happening.  All that waiting, all that impatience, all those months watching Illya blush when she stepped out in a towel or twined her arm in his and now it’s happening.  Illya tugs sharply on the buttons of her coat and mutters a vaguely familiar curse in Russian. 

Little things.  Nothing much.  Nothing that should throw her back so vividly. 

She is back in the dingy little building in East Berlin, listening to the click on the telephone line that meant the wiretap was in place.  She is lying in her bed and staring at the stain on the ceiling, trying not to tremble because a British spy has just contacted her and she is absolutely sure that a black car will come for her that very night.  She is idling on a deserted street, watching Illya’s single hand on the steering wheel and hoping the American is the faster draw.  She is remembering vanished friends and neighbors, rows of barbed wire and searchlights over towering stone walls, and Gaby wonders how she could ever have forgotten that Illya is KGB.

_Or, you could spend a night with the Russians, hanging from a pipe and having your toenails removed_ , Solo had told her.  How many other people has Illya retrieved, as their prize hunting dog?  How many has he tortured? 

She’s too still.  Illya is looking at her with worry in his eyes, hands moving up to rest on her shoulders because he thinks that touch is as magical for everyone else as it is for him.  Gaby tries to focus on that, on the way his face is open and honest as he looks at her, on the tenderness in his hands.  She takes a deep breath. 

Illya is not the enemy anymore. 

 “What’s wrong?”   Illya rubs her shoulder, a tentative caress.

“Nothing, it…I just…I need a minute.”

“Are you alright?”  His hands are hovering, anxious.   “Did I…was it too fast…”

“I’m fine.  I just need a minute.  Nothing’s wrong.”

_“Something_ is wrong, obviously.”

And she turns to look at him, exasperated, and stops.  Because Illya is looking at her and all the concern and confusion and love is there, but mixed in is just the faintest trace of wariness, suspicion.  Something telling him that maybe she is lying to him again, maybe she is just playing him off as part of a cover, and suddenly she is _furious_. 

“I remembered just now that you are KGB,” Gaby snaps, and gets up to pour herself a drink.  She and Illya have been dancing around this for what seems like months, and now it is all going to shit because she remembered he was a Soviet agent and all she wants to do is have things go easily, just this once. 

Illya is on his feet too, all romance gone.  “What?  What does that mean?”

“It means,” Gaby says, tossing down a mouthful of vodka, “that I remembered.  You.  Are KGB.” 

“You knew that when you met me,” says Illya, and the anger is starting to creep into his voice.  Fine.  He is angry.  So is she.

“I knew when I met you that you were there to kill me.”

And that stops him dead.  Already he is shaking his head, preparing to deny it.  “No!  I would…Gaby I would never…”

“Don’t lie, not about that,” she snaps.  “You would have hauled me back to be tortured in some warehouse and then put a bullet in my head.”

“I know you now.  I would never hurt you.” 

“Yes you would.  You’ve done it plenty of times before.” 

“To _enemie_ s of the _state_!”

And she is really furious now, because he is glaring at her like he doesn’t even hear himself, doesn’t taste the hypocrisy in the words he just spoke.  “I AM an enemy of the state, _Agent Kuryakin_.  I am an escaped traitor from East Berlin, a British spy and a daughter of a former Nazi scientist.  What happens when orders from Moscow come back in to kill me?”

She didn’t mean to set her glass down so hard.  The crash and tinkle of the shards seems loud in the silence.  Illya’s hands are shaking.  So are hers.

“I should go.” 

And she does.

 

* * *

 

 

Napoleon comes to find her, standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the hotel.  He leans against the balustrade with his hands in his pockets, looking like a picture out of a fashion magazine.  Gaby doesn’t turn her head. 

“You’ve left Peril in quite a state”, he says.  “I knocked at the door, and it knocked back.  I doubt we’ll be able to stay in this hotel tonight without shelling out a decent amount for repairs.”

“Why are you here?” she asks bluntly because if she waits for Napoleon to steer the conversation she’ll lose her temper again, and probably a number of other expensive things besides. 

“Like I said, you left Peril in quite a state.  If there’s trouble in paradise, I’d like to know.  Professional courtesy.” 

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“I believe a convincing argument can be made to the contrary.”

He’s being fairly direct, so Solo must actually be concerned, despite his blasé appearance.  Gaby leans forward on the balustrade and looks at the fountain bubbling in the center of the courtyard.

“I remembered,” she says at last, “that he is KGB.  And don’t say anything smart,” she says as she sees Napoleon open his mouth.  “I was remembering that when I met him, he was there to kill me.”

“Not to mention me,” says Napoleon dryly.  “Though I take your point.  Bit of a tricky diplomatic situation we’re in.” 

Gaby rolls her eyes.  Beneath them, a honeymooning couple strolls by, completely absorbed in each other.  The man bends to press a kiss to the woman’s forehead.  There are a few blond streaks in his hair.

“You know,” says Solo suddenly, breaking the silence.  “Peril might be Soviet to the bone, but I don’t think he’ll get a very warm welcome if he’s ever recalled to Moscow.”

“How so?”  she asks, even though she is already recalling the answer.

“It was half his idea to burn the tape with your father’s research on it,” says Napoleon, still looking elegantly out at the courtyard.  “And whatever line Waverly fed the Reds to keep them from recalling him, there’s still the matter of his illustrious family history.”

She’s seen both of their files, of course.  High-class thief, son of a disgraced family.  The best of their respective agencies.  Waverley offered to hide hers, but she knew better than to try to conceal something from a curious Napoleon Solo.  To say nothing of how long it would take Illya to so much as look at her again if she made such a blatant gesture of mistrust.  There was an odd etiquette to spy culture. 

“I know,” Gaby says at last. 

“Then why the sudden political rift?  You don’t have to tell me,” he adds as she shoots a nasty glare his way. 

“I _know_ I don’t have to tell you,” she says, and lets the silence hang there for a little longer.  It’s worth it, sometimes, just to see how long it takes for Napoleon to start squirming.  He doesn’t cope well with being confronted with something he can’t charm or steal.  Gaby makes it a point to be both, for all that he is becoming her friend. 

“I lived all my life in Germany,” she says finally.  “First the Nazis, then the Red Army.  He is KGB.  It’s not going to go away, just like that.” 

“I see,” says Solo, and gives her the rare gift of not saying anything glib afterwards.  The afternoon continues.  Solo pulls a pair of sunglasses from somewhere and turns them over in his hands.

“Do you think,” he says slowly, “that he would ever take an order to hurt you ever again?”

She doesn’t answer; they both already know, or neither of them would be here. The couple below exchanges a passionate kiss.   The woman brings her hand up to the man’s shoulder, and a ray of light catches the diamond ring on her finger.

 

* * *

 

 

The hotel room is a wreck, when she returns.  Mirrors broken, glasses shattered, sizeable dents in the walls and one or two nicks in the ceiling.  There isn’t a single piece of whole furniture in the room; even the posts on the large bed have been cracked. 

Illya is sitting on the floor against the footboard.  He doesn’t turn to look at her when she enters.  His eyes are red, and his knuckles are flayed raw.

“I would never hurt you,” he says, his voice hoarse.  “I couldn’t…not even Solo…I can’t…”

He lapses off into silence, drawing a knee up to his chest.  For all that his legs are so long, he looks impossibly young. 

“If you need me to get another room, I will leave now,” Illya mutters at last. 

Gaby looks at him – really looks at him – for a long, long time. 

She goes and gets a towel from the bathroom (the mirror is in pieces on the floor) and runs it under the cold tap.  Returns to thump matter-of-factly down by Illya’s side and begin sponging the red off his knuckles.  He flinches when she takes his hand, but doesn’t try to pull it back.  It is one thing she can depend on, that Illya Kuryakin will let her move him around at will.

“We’ll have to clean up together, make it fast.” she says.  “Someone is probably already reporting us.  I don’t think Solo wants to be kicked out of any more hotels.” 

Illya’s broken little sigh and the way he leans into her shoulder says everything that neither of them could ever put into words. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this poem comes from a section of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," by Sir Walter Scott:
> 
> "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,  
> Who never to himself hath said,  
> This is my own, my native land!  
> Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,  
> As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,  
> From wandering on a foreign strand!  
> If such there breathe, go, mark him well;  
> For him no Minstrel raptures swell;  
> High though his titles, proud his name,  
> Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;  
> Despite those titles, power, and pelf,  
> The wretch, concentred all in self,  
> Living, shall forfeit fair renown,  
> And, doubly dying, shall go down  
> To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,  
> Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung."
> 
> Obviously, the whole point of the U.N.C.L.E trio is the exact opposite of this poem - home can be a person and honor easily divorces itself from nationalism. But the poem stuck in my mind; partly because of Illya and his insistence on the Russian Way, and partly because I suppose that U.N.C.L.E. spies forego a lot of that patriotic belonging when they sign up to save the world.


End file.
